


Shadows of Better Men

by Teland



Series: Shadows of Better Men [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: But really we're talking about Mulder and Krycek here, M/M, Problematic Relationship Choices, So that's the entire friggin' tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-11-19
Updated: 1998-11-19
Packaged: 2020-12-07 10:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20974748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Alex smells kin.





	Shadows of Better Men

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Rye for beta!

I used to think it would be easy to love him. I know, that  
probably doesn't come as a shock to you, considering all  
those adoring glances I gave him while we were partners...  
But just remember that most of that was an act, all right?  
Back then, he was simply a mark, if a particularly  
well-dressed and attractive one.

I used his appearance to make it easier to play the puppy. 

Agent Alex Krycek would dream about fine tailored wool  
dragging against his cheek as Mulder pushed him to his  
knees. Agent Alex Krycek would have liked nothing better  
than to have his mouth fucked into some sluttish new shape  
while Mulder looked down in perfect aging rich boy  
arrogance. 

Agent Alex Krycek jerked off thinking about just that,  
every night of his short, pathetic life. 

But I wasn't Agent Alex Krycek then, and I never will be.  
This isn't some butch game. I'm smart enough not to deny  
myself what I like just so I can be a better man. I like  
fucking and I like being fucked. But I never hated myself  
enough to let  
some pansy ass like Agent Fox Mulder get under my skin. 

No fucking way. It was only *later* when thinking about him  
started to feel dangerous.

Ruthless punches, a gun to my head, and some cheap little  
hood ornament digging into my spine. Suddenly, Mulder  
was more than just some lily-lipped half-assed traitor  
whining about truth and justice. I got away, and reminded  
myself that even librarians get crazy on acid. 

The next time I couldn't blame it on the drugs, and the  
*next* time it was pure, unadulterated brutality. I started  
to wonder if his old drunk of a father had taught him  
anything useful after all. I started to dream of a Mulder  
who aimed all that delicious violence at *other* people. 

I saw the look in his eyes -- empty rage, cool and just  
this side of insane. I wanted. 

It didn't take long after that drive to Marita's for me to  
figure out that I could love the man, because suddenly he  
was *kin*. Have you ever felt that? Listened to or looked  
at someone and realized that, whether or not they believed  
it themselves, they *knew* you?

Even if it was only because they were just like you in some  
ways... God, it's thrilling. It's a gunshot coming from too  
close to ignore, and too far to be absolutely sure it isn't  
aimed at you. Just another death wish, and I knew myself  
well enough to know precisely what that sort of thing did  
to me. 

And I didn't care at all. 

I wanted him, all of him. I wanted him to scream my name  
while I fucked him through a wall. I wanted to watch him  
kill a man by inches and suck him off when he was done.  
Lick the blood from his face and show him my favorite spots  
to ditch weapons and bodies. 

I believed I could have that, if I just kept trying.

If you've never known kin then you have no fucking clue  
what I'm talking about. I don't think any of us get things  
like that too often... it's enough to make me think Plato  
wasn't just a sentimental old fag in a sheet. If you've  
known kin, then you understand. 

Looking at Mulder was like staring at some unpolished gem,  
or perhaps some chunk of steel waiting to be hammered into  
a proper weapon. I looked at him and I saw a soulmate for  
the ages, and so I did my best to run away from him. Going  
back "home" and doing my business. Activating former  
operatives with codewords stolen long ago from a dying  
man's breath. Bending them to my will. It was an old desire  
to have an army at my back, perhaps childish, but the  
practicality of the action allowed me to justify it.

But I got caught, thinking with my dick, and damned if I  
shouldn't have just fucked everything I could get my hands  
on back home. Better than an ice cold whore with her own  
damned agenda.

Lessons learned. The American shadow government might be  
an old boys' club, but a determined woman can always grow  
her own set of brass ones if she wants to. And if she  
doesn't have her own dick she can damned well buy one. The  
end result is always the same: You, bent over anything  
handy, learning yet again how to be someone else's bitch. 

If she wasn't so much like me I'd let her live for  
amusement alone. As it is, she's damned well going to have  
an accident. 

And the end result of that little escapade? Still another  
master for me. Another leash to choke myself against for  
the sheer, unadulterated hell of it. Another chance to see  
Mr. Mulder. He'll never be Agent Mulder to me again, no  
matter how many times I make myself say it.

He's grey now, and he knows it. Or, at least, I thought he  
did. I tempted him with a kiss. I teased him with endless  
notes and promises, promises... I even delivered on a few.  
And in the end, I wound up with his gun pressed under my  
eye and the rest of him molded to me like so much clay. He  
was less another person than a sculpture of lust, melted,  
sticky on my body through God knew how many layers of  
clothes and when I asked him --

"For once, why don't you take what you really want?"

\-- I honestly didn't know if he'd shoot me or... or bite  
me. Hard on the throat and I didn't have time to cry out  
before he made me whimper. His tongue was hot and restless  
and it was a long, long time before that gun was moved.

Fuck, it was just as perfect and dirty as I'd wished, and I  
didn't, couldn't curse my stupidity with Marita because it  
had gotten me right there. Backed up against yet another  
anonymously scummy alley wall with that lush mouth  
wrapped around my cock.

The Christians say everything happens for a reason, and  
there's something marvelous in any religion that allows me  
something to believe in.

And so it went. A night of pain followed by a night of  
welcome pain. I knew he still wasn't the Mulder I thought  
of as mine, but I thought I could feel him getting closer  
every time he wrestled me to the floor and fucked me hard  
for no one's need but his own. Or begged me to do the same. 

Then came the belts and cuffs and, what do you know?  
Suddenly, I'm his lover of choice because he couldn't dare  
ask the sainted ones to do this thing for him, because no  
one deserved to be a part of it that wasn't, well, us.

I could've told him a few things about Skinner, but I told  
myself I didn't want to burst that particular bubble. Then  
I hated myself for a while for being such a *mealy-mouthed*  
liar. I kept my secrets to myself because I liked the way  
he moaned and screamed. For me. 

But then it occurred to me that this... this welcomed  
punishment, Mulder's atonement through suffering... It  
wasn't getting him any closer to where I wanted him to be. 

This wasn't the Mulder I wanted, and our pleasant little  
relationship wasn't getting us any closer to the vision I  
had of the two of us on my bike, killing and fucking across  
the countryside. He was still a Fed, I was still his  
nighttime indiscretion. I was sick and fucking tired of  
hiding in the woodpile alone.

He might tell himself every damned night that I was just  
the punishment he deserved, but it was a lie. I'm no  
hypocrite. I trade in lies, live them every day I walk this  
stupid world, but I didn't ever lie to him about *this*,  
and I refused to let him do it to me. 

So I left him for a while. Made sure he got his precious  
X-Files back and disappeared. Watched him from the shadows  
and waited. I knew it wouldn't take long for him to join me  
there. He needed this, you see. Needed *me*. 

Months passed before the day he finally lowered himself to  
come looking. So sad at first... no one, *no* one does  
kicked stray like Mulder. Spewing all this self-serving  
bullshit about how everyone left him and accusations that  
I'd been using him. Yet another fight and I swore to myself  
that if he ever hit me again when I hadn't asked him to I'd  
cut off his motherfucking hand.

I swore it to his face as he lay pinned beneath me. Panting  
and rock hard under yet another pair of fine wool slacks. 

I told him I was sick of his lies to me and to himself.  
Told him to take a good look in the mirror and see if he  
could still claim to be so clean. Pointed out my blood on  
his knuckles. Grabbed his hand and made him poke at the  
bruises he'd left *this* time. Gave him an image of sweet,  
rich rotting fruit and asked when he was gonna take the  
taste he'd always wanted. 

"I'll never be you, Krycek."

Yeah, well, he couldn't if he tried. And if I wanted me I'd  
liberate one of the clones that are undoubtedly sleeping  
peacefully in some thick green ooze in one of the thousands  
of conveniently abandoned warehouses littering this fine  
country. 

So I just looked at him until I could see his face soften,  
and kissed him gently until his tongue was struggling to  
pull mine back into his mouth. We tasted of each other's  
blood  
and I was hard in moments.

It took a while to pull away -- I'm not made of stone --  
but I managed it, breathing roughly against his face,  
watching that too-short hair ruffle slightly before  
slowing. I asked him:

"When I kiss you, what makes you surrender to it?"

"The blood, the pain--"

I slapped him. And again, to see him snarl. 

"What do you want from me?"

"Same thing you do, asshole. A free fuck and a little time  
to forget."

I think I almost cried. No, I know I did. It may not be  
something I do often, but that acid burn just behind your  
eyes is absolutely unmistakable.

This is me, this is me wanting what I can't have. Nothing  
new, but I'd never thought I'd let myself be refused  
something... something like *this* by anyone but myself. 

I shook myself out of it to find Mulder staring up at me  
with that brand of contempt he'd polished so well all those  
years ago. 

"You want romance, Krycek? Buy yourself a more expensive  
whore. You want a blow job? Open up your pants." All cool  
professionalism. No anger, no want, nothing. There's  
something painfully absurd about having to wade through  
acres of bullshit with *Mulder* before getting to anything  
like truth.

I got off him and walked out the door. Thought about  
leaving my gun behind, but I've never been fond of  
melodrama. 

Shut it behind me and walked away.

Lessons learned. You're never too old to dream, but only  
kids look cute when they whine about life not being fair. I  
was never that pathetic, and I never will be. There are  
still wars to be fought, and it's better to be in love with  
a fantasy of your own making than a real man. Fantasies  
never... disappoint.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

Notes: Also at least partially inspired by Alicia's  
"Decorations" and a certain recent thread on SlashX. And  
thanks to Viridian for pointing out how painfully perfect  
"When You Don't See Me" by the Sisters of Mercy was for  
this... title stolen from there.


End file.
